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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30149076">Who Are You to Ask For Anything More?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxofhatebrains/pseuds/boxofhatebrains'>boxofhatebrains</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gundam Wing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Androgyny, Angst and Feels, Bittersweet, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Opposites Attract, Quatre gets fed up with people making assumptions, Sharing a Bed, Starley Hotel because of course, Thoughts of Midi, Trowa has feelings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 19:01:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,771</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30149076</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxofhatebrains/pseuds/boxofhatebrains</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Trowa and Quatre meet for the second time, and they begin to realize their attraction...and the danger that brings to both of their lives.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Trowa Barton/Quatre Raberba Winner</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Sexual content NOT in this chapter, but swearing</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There is a door in front of me.  I never really hesitate after I make a decision.  I’m not sure why I’ve started now.  I shouldn’t be here, I understand that much.  I really should have slept in the truck, I’ve slept in worse places and under worse circumstances.<br/>
<br/>
And yet, here I am.  Looking at how the brassy numbers 205 reflected my face and distort it.  I’m holding my breath before I notice it.<br/>
<br/>
I really shouldn’t be here.<br/>
<br/>
So, I’m about to walk away when the door opens and I’m caught.<br/>
<br/>
That breath’s still trapped in my lungs.<br/>
<br/>
“Trowa?” his voice is confused and unbelieving, but it suddenly bursts into joy, “I’m so glad you came here!”<br/>
<br/>
I can tell he is.  I can tell he’s so happy that I’ve wandered to his door, and it seems so childish and innocent, and somehow wrong.  He’s so happy just because I came to stare at his door, this simple, stupid gesture makes Quatre incredibly happy. <em>Quatre Rabarba Winner</em>, estimated worth 5.6 million, only son of Zayeed Winner and future CEO of Winner Enterprises.</p><p>It’s mind-boggling and if he wasn’t so genuine, I’d be thinking he was feeding me a line of bullshit.<br/>
<br/>
“I was just going out to get some ice; go in and I’ll be right back.”<br/>
<br/>
He doesn’t look back when he walks away, trusting me to be there when he returns.  He’s so...weird.  I’ve never met anyone like him.  Just being around him makes me want to know more, be around him more, and I’m not sure how to handle that. </p><p>He’s fascinating, but I’m not sure if I want to be closer to him. I don’t want to become close to something that I’ll most likely lose.  I should really go…<br/>
<br/>
But here I walk into the room. It’s nice, just like I expected.  Hotel rooms are interesting to me.  It’s like intruding on someone’s home, full of furniture that’s not yours, but at the same time, it’s all very impersonal.  Every room is nearly the same.  Hundreds have stayed there before you and hundreds more after you leave. <br/>
<br/>
But it looks nice, nicer than an average hotel.  He probably has so much money at his disposal. Just being in that estate when we first met was overwhelming.  I wonder what it’d be like to be so recognizable...I’d probably hate it.<br/>
<br/>
“Would you like something to eat and drink?” he asks enthusiastically behind me as he closes the door and sets the ice aside.<br/>
<br/>
“Sure, whatever’s fine,” I reply and watch him rummage through the fridge.  It’s so...odd, being here with him and acting like I’m just a friend stopping by.  It feels like there’s a consistency to it, a routine, like we’ve been friends for years.  I’ve never felt that connection to anyone and I wonder if other people feel that way around him.  I recall his soldiers and how they act around him.  My stomach tightens and I don’t like the feeling.  It’s mostly likely that several people feel the same way that I do; he’s so comfortable to be with.  I don’t like that; it makes me feel like nothing.  I want to be somehow...different to him. <br/>
<br/>
Although I really shouldn’t want to.  There’s such a push and pull when I’m with him and I’m still figuring out whether I like it or hate it.<br/>
<br/>
“Is this okay?” he asks, handing me a sandwich.  I don’t even look down at it as our hands touch; I don’t really care what kind it is.<br/>
<br/>
“Are your soldiers with you?” I ask him as I pull the sandwich out of its wrapping.<br/>
<br/>
“No, they need to be stationed at the base now.  There’s been a lot of OZ activity over there recently,” he answers and his face becomes somber.<br/>
<br/>
I eat as he gets me something to drink, something out of a can.  He pours it in a glass and hands it to me.  This time, when our fingers touch, he doesn’t let go right away.  I’m not sure if it means any significance and I let it pass.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m glad you’re here,” he quietly admits after some silence.<br/>
<br/>
“You’ve said that already,” I point out and hope I don’t sound as dull as it sounds to me.<br/>
<br/>
“We didn’t really have much time to talk last time,” he says and smiles a little, “I’m hoping we can do that, now that we have another opportunity to.”<br/>
<br/>
“Like what?” I say before taking another bite.  I feel less defensive now than when I was at his base.  I notice how pretty he looks.  He’s not very handsome, but pretty.  Not like a girl, but not like a man.  Whatever it is, I like it.  I like how he looks.<br/>
<br/>
“Well, like...” he pauses to sit down on a sofa and motions for me to sit next to him.  I don’t know if I want to.  I don’t know whether to take that as a command to be subservient, or as a come-on, or as a gesture of friendship.  However, I reason that it’s just Quatre and he’s just being cordial.<br/>
<br/>
I sit as he continues, “What are your hobbies?  What did you do before the war?  Where do you live?  What are you planning to do when the war is over?”<br/>
<br/>
He pauses, thinking, then laughs and adds, “What is your favorite ice-cream flavor?  Things like that.  I want to get to know you more.”<br/>
<br/>
“Why?” I ask out of instinct, my tone is harsher than I’d like it.<br/>
<br/>
He tries to palliate whatever emotion I saw flash across his face with a forced smile and gently tells me, “I want to be your friend, your ally.”<br/>
<br/>
Why hide it?  Why hide who I am and where I come from?  I hesitate, still.  I realize, suddenly, that I don’t want him to know.  I want to be a mystery, an enigma because I want him to keep striving to figure me out.  If he knows, what kind of a friendship could we have?  Now or ever?  It’s not very practical.  He has high-class friends and surrounded by people that adore him, he doesn’t need someone else hanging around.  Honestly, he’s out of my league.  I know that without self-loathing or contempt, it’s just the facts.<br/>
<br/>
“I like the flute, as you saw, and reading.  Before the war I was a soldier.  I have no home.  I don’t think it’s possible to survive the war and if I do, I suppose I’d stay on Earth and become a mercenary again.  I don’t like ice-cream”, I answer his questions methodically, then add, “And I think I should be going now.  We have a mission-”<br/>
<br/>
“You just got here,” he hurriedly protests, and follows suit when I stand, “Please, it’s okay.  You can stay the night if you want.”<br/>
<br/>
My mind blanks after he blurts that and he looks hopeful.  He doesn’t even realize that he implied us having sex, I can tell by the look on his face.  He means that I can stay with him here, like friends, like very good friends.<br/>
<br/>
“What if some paparazzi saw me come in and doesn’t see me come out?” I know it’s a weak argument, but he has a reputation to protect, even if he forgets that.<br/>
<br/>
He sighs heavily, “I don’t care about that.  I’ve already been...disowned.  So, that doesn’t matter.  Not anymore.”<br/>
<br/>
I can’t believe I’m actually considering it.  I shouldn’t have come at all.<br/>
<br/>
“Please, just stay.  Let’s just talk a little more...or we can go to bed.  Whatever you want. You can even sleep in the bedroom and I can take the couch.  The couch folds out into a bed.”<br/>
<br/>
I’m about to say that there’s no possible way that I’m going to sleep in the bed that he’s paid for when he adds very softly, “Or we both can sleep in the bed.”<br/>
<br/>
Where...did that just come from?  Wait, is he attracted to me?  I’m not sure what to think; my thoughts are in between ‘I’m really flattered’ and ‘Is he fucking kidding me?’. I’m being propositioned by one of the richest heirs in the universe?  Me? No-name?   It’s really fucked up.  I would have thought he meant platonically, but his cheeks are sweetly pink and he’s fidgeting slightly.<br/>
<br/>
“Or not”, he says quickly after a full minute.<br/>
<br/>
“It’s not...” I try to say something, but it’s awkward and I don’t know what to say.  I’m not really used to this situation.  I want to tell him that it’s not him, it’s the circumstances.  If we were ordinary men, it’d be one thing, but we’re not.  He’s the heir of a billion dollar company (whether we wants to admit it or not) and I’m honestly and literally no one, not to mention we’re caught up in this huge war, and probably on the losing end.<br/>
<br/>
“It’s all right,” he says, rushed, “It’s nothing.  I’ll sleep on the couch.”<br/>
<br/>
There are tears, <em>fucking tears</em>, in his eyes and he smiles at me, swallowing down whatever emotion he’s feeling.  My heart clenches.  It all feels wrong. <br/>
<br/>
“Are...” I try again, “Are you upset that I turned you down…because no one’s turned you down before because of who you are?”<br/>
<br/>
 His face is stricken and I feel horrible.  Then he looks angry and I feel worse. I shouldn't have opened my mouth. I don't even know why I said that.<br/>
<br/>
“That-” he exclaims, then stops in disbelief, “I can’t believe you’d think that!  I thought you knew me well enough.”<br/>
<br/>
“I shouldn’t have come here,” I voice out loud now, but the sentiments are more to myself than him.<br/>
<br/>
“Trowa,” he snaps and I look at him again, even though I don’t really don’t want to, “Is that really who you think I am?”<br/>
<br/>
“I don’t know you, Quatre”, I say flatly because it’s true.  We don’t know each other.  Maybe it’s true, maybe he’s got this sweet demeanor, but down deep, it’s a different story.  I’ve seen people change their stripes when they need to.  He’s got a lot depending on him and maybe he would sell me out, just like Midi did.<br/>
<br/>
“I would like you to know me, Trowa,” he speaks with conviction, with his heart on his sleeve, “I’ve been trying so hard.  I want to know you and I want you to know me.  And don’t say anything about the war or my heredity or anything else because this is between <em>us</em>. I don’t care what anyone else thinks about this!”<br/>
<br/>
“But I’ll tell you now”, his eyes narrow as he continues, “I am not that type of person.  I am not some conceited rich boy that thinks he deserves everything just because he was born into the <em>flawed</em> archaic construct of patrimony!  I’m not some officious egoist, Trowa Barton.  I’m not him!”<br/>
<br/>
The tears surface again on his flushed and hurt face; he hastily wipes them away before they fall. His eyes are deep and direct. They don’t waver.<br/>
<br/>
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, but I want you to.  I want you to want to.  Does that make sense?” He asks, breathlessly, “I want you to try to know me and not treat me like I’m any different from you. I’m so tired of people distancing themselves from me because they’re intimidated by me. There are times that I wish I didn’t have any of it...There are times that it would be easier.”<br/>
<br/>
“And-and here you are,” he forces himself to say as he gestures to me, “And I can’t help but think, ‘He’s free to come and go. He can walk away from this.’ But<em> I</em> can’t. I have an obligation to the colonies.  I have to fight for them because my father <em>won’t</em>!  I’ve tried to run away before...from everything, but I can’t because it’s who I am.  It’s my destiny.  How I envy you, Trowa...”<br/>
<br/>
I feel sick as I think about Midi again.  Obligations will lead you to do anything.  Responsibilities are a weakness.  Just like back then, I feel robbed again.  I feel outside from humanity, looking in.  I’ve never had that.  I was never desperate for anything.  I never had someone depending on me, fueling me onward.  I’ve wandered every place I’ve been.  I’m not even supposed to be a part of this war, I stole someone’s place.  And I feel glad, how pathetic is that.  I feel glad that I stole someone’s name because now I have one.  I have a purpose now. It’s sick.<br/>
<br/>
And all those people that have a life and a home feel like puppets, just carrying out the actions of their loved ones.  Each string’s a burden to them and they feel like they lose their freedom.  But what about the marionette that doesn’t have any strings?  How free are they, when they can’t even get up?<br/>
<br/>
I suddenly feel pissed off.  How many times have I heard the other men bitching about the children they have to feed and the wives they have to please?  I’ve heard stories of aging fathers that have to be watched after and mothers they’ve had to bury.  Brothers and sisters that beg for money from them and cousins borrowing things without asking.  It feels like the world rubs it in my face, the fact that I don’t have those things, that I never will, and people have the audacity to bitch about them.<br/>
<br/>
Here Quatre is; he has money, looks, family, a home, and enormous talent.  I feel angry.  I feel somehow used.  And I feel very, very lonely.  Just like always, I suck it down.  It’s my problem, no one else’s.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m leaving”, I announce, even though I don’t know why I’m telling him.  To be polite? To end the conversation?  To tell him I’m not hosting his goddamn pity-party?<br/>
<br/>
“You’re angry,” he says, sobered.  He looks ashamed and the blush curls back on his cheeks, “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have said that, of course you have your troubles, too.”<br/>
<br/>
“Of course”, I snap back and I see him cringe from the ice that I’ve wrapped in those words.<br/>
<br/>
I turn away, towards the door, but tell him sternly, “Quatre, you need to grow up or be killed…I don’t really care which..”<br/>
<br/>
I start walking towards the door, but he actually has the nerve to rush in front of it, bracing his body against it.<br/>
   <br/>
“Come on, Quatre,” I sigh, exasperated.<br/>
<br/>
“You’re right,” he says and swallows, “I have a long way to go, I have a lot more to learn.  I didn’t mean how that sounded before.  I just...I just wanted you to know how I feel.  I know that you think that’s selfish, but you have to realize, too, that even though I’m surrounded by people, I get lonely.<br/>
<br/>
“Honestly, before the Maganacs, I felt I had no one.  I have twenty-nine sisters, Trowa. Twenty-nine! They were all made from test-tubes, just like me.  My father created all of them just to be his heir, but they were all <em>female</em>.  He gave creation, <em>life</em>, to twenty-nine people just to have someone to push the family business onto.  I hardly even know them.  Most have cut him from their lives, except to cash the checks he gives them for their birthdays.  I don’t even know most of their names.<br/>
<br/>
“When I was a child, I would play chess with the servants because no one else my age would play with me.  I learned chess so I could fit into the adult world and would have someone, <em>anyone</em>, to give me affection.  My father hardly ever did.  I think...I think it’s because I remind him too much of my mother.  She died before I was born and I know that he truly loved her and he’s afraid to get attached to me.  He’s afraid of losing me.<br/>
<br/>
"So, to you, I may seem like a selfish, puerile brat because I have so much in my life, but I was lonely, too...”<br/>
<br/>
He leaves his emotions in the air for a moment before quietly finishing, “I am lonely, too.”<br/>
<br/>
That’s a lot to absorb, a lot to taste and swallow.  I find that I have no more anger in my mouth, though.  I’m left with a salty after-taste that feels different.  I feel different.  I look at him and feel different.  He looks different.  He’s more human and flawed, and more beautiful.  His eyes are red and wet and his face is flushed, but so much better.  Somehow, he’s not untouchable any more.  He’s real and candid, and not out of my league.<br/>
<br/>
I really want to touch him.<br/>
<br/>
“So,” he tells me, then clears his throat, “if you still want to leave, you can.  If you still want to stay, you can...If you still want to stay the night, you can.”<br/>
<br/>
I rub the back of my neck awkwardly and feel very awkward again.  It feels so...normal again, like a movie.  Right now, I want it to be normal.  I want to forget about the war outside and the gundams.  Maybe just for tonight, I want to have a name and I want him to lose his. I want to be just a boy that has the hots for another boy that has the hots for him.  Just sweet and awkward. No more baggage.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah,” I tell him and don’t quite meet his eyes, “Yeah, I’ll stay.”<br/>
<br/>
We’ll be normal for now, just for tonight.<br/>
<br/>
A small, shy smile stretches his lips before he licks them.<br/>
<br/>
“Just don’t kick me when you sleep,” I say to lighten the mood because it’s so heavy, it’s hard to breathe.<br/>
<br/>
He laughs nervously and I think understands what I’m saying: Yeah, I want to have sex with you.<br/>
<br/>
But we just stand there a few seconds before he laughs again.<br/>
<br/>
“I’ve never done this,” he admits with a deeper blush, “Did I just come on to you?”<br/>
<br/>
I feel a smile press against my lips and say, “Yeah.”<br/>
<br/>
“Did you just accept?”<br/>
<br/>
 I don’t try to stop a small chuckle that breaks out.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah.”<br/>
<br/>
“So, what do we do now?” he laughs, embarrassed, “Have you done this before?”<br/>
<br/>
“No, but I know how.  Let’s go on the bed.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Trowa tried to understand Quatre deeper...</p><p>Some sexual content this chapter.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>'Kay, so there's a quote attributed to Muhammad in here that may be a whole Marilyn Monroe situation...so, in this fic Quatre is Muslim-ish. I am not Muslim, full disclaimer, but I figure that it might have had a part in his upbringing or culture. At least in this story. Anyway, a lot of lead-up to say that this quote is probably NOT from the Prophet Muhammad. But if you're...I dunno, not into nice quotes(?) or the Prophet being mentioned, then you can skip this fic? </p><p>::shrugs:: I dunno, man. I just like Quatre. Hope you enjoy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I never thought that I’d be doing this during the war, especially not with anyone like Quatre.  I always thought I’d have sex with a girl because I was curious.  I thought it would be hard and fast, with no emotion.  The classic one-night-stand.  That’d be it.<br/><br/>We both sit down on the bed, next to each other.  I take off my shoes and he mimics me.  I turn to him and he does the same, like a twisted reflection.  My heart tightens when I realize that he’s depending on me.  He’s trusting me completely on this.  He’s trusting me with his body and his emotions.  It really is all up to me.  I feel nervous and it’s an odd feeling.  I’m not used to it.  .<br/><br/>I slide my hand on his neck until my fingers can curl around the back and I can feel the soft hairs there.  He sharply inhales and smiles an inch at the corners of his mouth.  I slowly lean forward while pulling him to me. He doesn’t give any resistance, just moves towards me.  When I’m really close, I stop, and it’s not for dramatic purposes.  I’m weighing my options.  I could walk away from this, right now, no questions asked.  If I touch him now, I’ll get close.  I don’t know what I’ll do because after this, I have the feeling that he’s going to be in my future. He’s going to change my life.<br/><br/>I don’t move in, but he does.  I am suddenly kissing Quatre and it feels good, indescribably good.  And I stop thinking.  I kiss him, each kiss is soft and chaste.  Open mouthed, but no tongue, and just sweet and slow. Just arousing. Just sweet.</p><p>I feel his hands rest just above my knees, not moving, just propped there.  I put both hands in his hair as the kiss gets deeper and I become harder.  His hands then move to just behind my arms with a slight force to keep my hands buried in his hair.  I take the next step without even thinking, my tongue slips in and rubs against his.  I feel a little moan envelop my tongue before he mimics me again, and his tongue moves against mine. <br/><br/>His hands fall onto my chest and thumbs slide against my nipples.  I pull back in surprise.<br/><br/>“Was that wrong?” he quickly asks, his eyes wide.<br/><br/>“No,” I whisper and slip my turtleneck off me.<br/><br/>He shyly looks down at this own clothes when I start to pull off my shirt, smiling, and starts unbuttoning his vest.  My head still can’t fathom that I’m here, in Quatre’s bed, as he strips for me.  I watch him pull it off and then work on his dress shirt.  I like watching him. <br/><br/>His skin is pale, phosphorescent and like porcelain.  He’s skinny and it’s cute.  He’s cute. Still slightly girlish, but in a way that suits him. <br/><br/>He looks up and he startles, his eyes grow wide with concern at all my scars, but he doesn’t say anything.  Slowly, his hand reaches out and fingers solid against my chest.  He looks pained and wants to ask about them, but won’t.  Just touches them and frowns. <br/><br/>I push him onto the bed carefully, but quickly.  He gasps a little, but smiles when I straddle his waist.  I run my hands over his chest and he squirms and laughs.<br/><br/>“Sorry,” his voice is light and breathy, “I’m ticklish.”<br/><br/>I wonder what it’s like to be ticklish.<br/><br/>I lean down and nip at his neck, first with lips and then with teeth.  His short moans excite me.  His fingernails stretch down my back with gentle pressure.  I lose myself in him, hoping to be mixed with him.  Maybe getting closer to him.  Maybe becoming like him.<br/><br/>Maybe closer to knowing what it’s like to be him.<br/><br/>I want to get confused.  I want to forget myself in his kisses and heat.  I want to forget about the world and its problems.<br/><br/>I grind against him and find him hard and wanting.  He cries out and I bite harder just to hear it again.  I lean back, seeing for a moment the mark I made at the juncture of his shoulder and neck, before I kiss his mouth again.  It’s wet and hard.  And he kisses me back, just as fierce, just as yearning. Like he wants me as much as I'm wanting him. Like we're equals.<br/><br/>Gasping for air, I draw back and look down at him.  His hair is bent and scattered, freeing itself from his hair-spray.  His lips are thick and ruddy, glossy with our mixed saliva.  He’s shaking, so slightly. <br/><br/>I unbuckle his belt quickly, easily.  I unbutton his pants and his breath hitches.  I can feel my pulse in my hands as I unzip him slowly.  I can feel my pulse everywhere.  I slide everything off, by every inch.  I pull down the rest of his clothes.  <br/><br/>I’m nervous.  I’m excited.  I’m horny.  I’m happy.  I’m scared.<br/><br/>I don’t find diamonds.  I don’t find the meaning of life.  I don’t find peace, but I find Quatre and it feels almost like the same thing.  Almost as precious.<br/><br/>He lets out a long breath as I glance down at his nudity. I’m not sure if he’s modest or insecure about his body or just happy to finally get this far.  My eyes fixate on his penis without much thought.  I’ve always thought genitalia (both male and female) are slightly unattractive and misshapen.  I don’t think his penis is any exception; however, what it represents makes my heart dizzy.  He’s aroused by me.  It makes me feel primal.  It makes me want to fuck.  Not have sex or make love, just fuck.  I want it to fuck me and mine fuck him.  Just seeing him naked and willing with a hard-on, fills me with the passion to pin him down and take my pleasure.<br/><br/>His hands are on my jeans; pulling on the button, on the zipper, but he's having trouble with it.  I swiftly roll off of him to lay down next to him, kicking off my jeans and underwear.  He watches me, <em>showers me with his gaze</em>.  I’m naked and he’s feeling it, too.  He’s feeling the desire, the pull, the teist.  Just watching his face as his eyes discover my body, I can tell.  He’s not backing down, like I would have thought, he’s stepping up.<br/><br/>I wait for him to make the first move.  I’m done leading.  I want him to indulge.  I want him to touch me first. <br/><br/>He does.<br/><br/>Quatre’s body blankets mine, skin to skin.  I can feel him, smell him, <em>everywhere</em>.  His mouth kisses, licks, bites <em>everywhere</em>.  His hands cherish me, caressing me, owning me.  Our cocks meet and rub together.  I let him have me.  I let him own me, just so I’m owned.  I let him love me...<br/><br/>When he rolls off my body, he pulls me with him, so I’m on top of him.  I’m about to kiss him when he pleads, “Please...do whatever you want. I want you so much.”<br/><br/>It sets me back a bit.  I didn’t expect that.  It feels a little off, a little wrong.  Something’s maybe wrong, but I don’t want to betray what we have now.  I feel like if I denied him, he’d take it as an insult.  I want to be happy.  I want him to be happy.  Why do I feel like there’s something in the middle of this?<br/><br/>“I’ll be right back,” I tell him, thinking about lube.  What could I find?  I’m not sure what would be the best.<br/><br/>“Don’t leave,” he says suddenly, vulnerable, pleading.  I think he means for good.  I think he means ‘don’t leave the hotel’.  I think he thinks that it’d be easy for me to just walk away.  I wonder what he’d do if our lives were reversed.  Would <span class="u">he</span> leave?<br/>    <br/>“I just need something,” I comfort him, “I’ll be right back.”<br/><br/>I get up and it’s tough.  It’s one of the hardest things I’ve done, just walk away from Quatre when he’s so nude and so vulnerable.  I sigh as I walk out the room.  I shouldn’t have come here, but I’m starting to understand why I did.<br/><br/>I find the bathroom.  It’s nice, a lot nicer than most of the bathrooms I’m accustomed to. And that was when there were bathrooms available, sometimes it was the bushes and a shower from the hose.  Again, I feel a little out of place and a little like I should be leaving, or shouldn’t have come at all.  I sit down on the toilet and rest my head in my hands. <br/><br/>I just need to think for a second. I just need to process. He's overwhelming. He's sweet, but I just need a moment to breathe. </p><p>What's that shadow of doubt in his eyes? What's that blind need? What's with that desperate acceptance...? Or is that it? Is it my acceptance that he's clinging to, desperate for...? But why mine? Unless I'm a proxy, unless I'm a pawn. But our both being here, wanting this opens us to that weakness. I can live with being a pawn, have done so all of my life, but why is he...?</p><p>Having a family is better than not having one, right?  Why would Quatre ever want to sacrifice that?  Or put that in jeopardy?  He’s not a soldier, he’s an artist.  He’s a well-bred political and business icon.  He can’t really expect to survive.  He can’t really think that he can save his colony if he chooses to fight, right?  Then why is he fighting?  To gain acceptance? To prove his worth?<br/><br/>My stomach drops.  That’s it.  It must be.  He’s trying to prove his worth to his father by fighting this war.  <br/><br/><em>How foolish, Quatre.</em> But what happens when you die?  Without you, your father’s company faces ruin, right? You have everything, Quatre, why risk it all? <br/><br/>If I had all that, I’d keep it safe, I’d covet it.  I’d savor it. Not "that little rich boy", you say? You’re playing right into that hubris and ego. <br/><br/>I feel angry again because it’s so petty and childish.  I lose my erection and almost my sandwich, I’m so disgusted.  I’m considering leaving, completely naked, and sleeping in the truck tonight. <br/><br/>“Trowa?”<br/><br/>I sharply stand up, surprised that he's caught me off-guard.  He’s holding a blanket around him and looking very, very unsure.<br/><br/>“Is...everything okay?” he asks, but reluctantly, like he doesn’t want the answer.<br/><br/>“I don’t understand you,” I tell him honestly.<br/><br/>“Oh,” he whispers, like he knows exactly what I’m talking about, like he was in on my whole mental conversation. <br/><br/>“Why do you have to do all this?” I ask, shaking my head, “Just to prove your own self-worth?  Aren’t you risking too much?”<br/><br/>He takes a slow, deliberate step forward before answering, “It’s not just that, but...I want to show that I’m my own person who isn’t afraid to fight for what I believe in.  I’m not going to back down because he- my father feels that I should.  I don’t believe in sacrificing our actions for the sake of peace; that’s not peace, it’s submission.  If I don’t try, then I’ve already lost.  I don’t expect to save the world, Trowa, but I expect to try.  If I can’t summon the courage to act against evil, how can I expect others?<br/><br/>"I suppose in a way I’m trying to prove to<em> myself</em>, not my father, that I can have the courage.  I may die and cause great sorrow to those around me, but I would hope that my loved ones would realize why I died.  I may not be a soldier and others may think that I’m easy target, but I am a person that has a lot to live for and I’m not going to give up<em>...ever</em>.”<br/><br/>He walks closer to me and stops when he’s right in front of me.  The blanket brushes up against my penis, but he didn’t mean it to.<br/><br/>“When I said that I envy you what I meant is that I admire your strength and your direction.  You know who you are, what kind of person you are, and where you’re going.  You have the intelligence of a soldier and the wisdom of an old soul.  I wish I was more like you.  I wish I wouldn’t second guess myself, wondering what my actions will cause.  You feel like you know what your actions will lead to.  You’re not afraid to die.  You’re not afraid to trust a stranger that takes you into his desert base...and play such sweet music.”<br/><br/>He smiles at that, easy and warm.<br/><br/>“Life is never easy,” he murmurs, smiling, as he leans closer.  Our skin makes shallow touches.<br/><br/>“But life gets <em>easier</em>," he finishes his thought, as he lets the blanket drop, his lithe body now exposed to me, “Rashid told me that.  He told me to stop comparing myself to other people, that I may have formed differently, but that there’s a reason why I’m here.  And I have to find out that reason.<br/><br/>"And as the Prophet Mohammed, <span class="ILfuVd"><span class="hgKElc">sallallahu 'alayhi wa sallam</span></span>, stated, ‘<em>Four things support the world: the learning of the wise, the justice of the great, the prayers of the good, and the valor of the brave</em>’. I want to be worthy and wise. I want to be brave and good. I want to be a man ready to fight for justice...don’t you?”<br/><br/>His arms wrap around me gingerly.  He leans forward and I meet him. We kiss like it’s the first time.<br/><br/>Pulling back slightly, he asks, “So, did you find what you were looking for?”<br/>    <br/>“Not yet," I reply, but spot the double meaning, “Do you have lotion or something that acts as lubricant?”<br/><br/>His soft face twists into curiosity, “I’m sure I do somewhere, but for what?”<br/><br/>I laugh.  I don’t mean to, but it’s so innocent and naive.  He’s cute again. Is this his power? To turn one's heart? <em>What an incredible power...</em><br/><br/>“What’s so funny?” He laughs, too, not even knowing why I’m laughing.  Just laughing with me.  It’s comfortable; it’s sweet.<br/><br/></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Beautiful moments and harsh truths in the shadows of youth and hope.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sexual Content this chapter</p><p>...also sad Trowa. He's okay, though.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He gets some lotion and I hope it’ll work fine. We go back to the bedroom, touching each other as we go; the small of the back, an elbow, the abdomen, anywhere...<br/><br/>Grabbing me before he even gets to the bed, he kisses me again. Only then does he touch me, carefully gripping my cock, gently stroking and pulling.  I grunt into his mouth and push him towards the bed, step by step, before we topple over onto it. I push him down and cover him. No more interruptions, no more moments of doubt, and no more anger.<br/><br/>Just us. <br/><br/>I slip in between his legs and spread them, feeling his skin touch my arms. His leg hairs are so blonde that I can’t see them, but I feel them, each one.  My hands move down to his inner thighs, to his ass cheeks.  I squeeze them before opening them; my breath, my heart, time flickering for a moment.  I feel sweat on my forehead. That makes my hands shake for some reason, and he takes a deep, steady breath.<br/><br/>I open the lotion and spread it all over my hands, some of it drips onto the bed and my kneeling legs.  I watch as his cock swell and twitch as I bend towards it. I lick my lips before I lick him. He gasps in surprise, and then a deep, lingering moan unfolds from his lips as I suck the head of his cock slowly.  <br/><br/>After letting a few seconds go by of sucking and pumping him, I really begin what we’re going to do.  My finger pushes slowly in him, the whole finger, finally up to the knuckle; he gasps and grunts against me. It’s tight, really tight. Is it supposed to be that tight? How is this going to work? What if I can’t even fit?<br/><br/>I continue to suck as I gingerly move my finger around. I start to push in and out shallowly and he’s pretty quiet. I get a little worried. I heard about the prostate, about how it feels good. It’s somewhere in there. I just have to find it.<br/><br/>I lick and suck and do things that I would have never thought of doing to a dick. I don’t know if it’s any good, but I don’t stop. At his silence, I double my efforts, can feel the saliva slip down to my probing finger. <br/><br/>When it feels a little looser, I press another finger in and he grunts a little. I look up at his face and find him with his eyes shut and his eyebrows clenched together. His cock starts to grow soft in my mouth. That’s it; I’m done. I quit. I’m not going to hurt him. Obviously, I’m not good at this. I’m not doing this right.<br/><br/>I pull back and remove my fingers. I kneel again, watching him, and wrap an arm around one of his bent legs. The concentration melts away from his face before, his eyelids crack open and he looks at me, puzzled.<br/><br/>“What’s wrong?”<br/><br/>“I’m not going to hurt you,” I reply, evenly, “Maybe...maybe we can switch. You know, switch positions.”<br/><br/>“Trowa,” he says, low and just as even, “You’d better do it now...or I’m kicking you out.”<br/><br/>I almost laugh, but he doesn’t look like he’s joking.<br/><br/>“Quite teasing me, Trowa, and have sex with me.” His eyes are so blue and so open. They remind me of the ocean, trying to swallow me whole, trying to pull me into their warmth and chaos. They want so much of me. Things I don’t know if I could even give…things I might not even have. <br/><br/>I swallow and lean in. I stare back at him, not wavering, as I push my finger back into him. He watches my face, his mouth opens, breathes, can feel me. He can feel me and that thought trickles through me. <br/><br/>“You mean,” I say as I leisurely finger-fuck him, “<em>Fuck</em> you?”<br/><br/>His fingers curl around the covers as he pants. I push in the second finger. I get harder. He gets harder.<br/><br/>“You want me to<em> fuck</em> you, Quatre Winner?” I correct him and with these words and our eyes connected, he starts to moan and writhe against the drag of my fingers.<br/><br/>I hesitate, but add the last finger I’m going to use. I look down to see them disappear into his body and I shiver, actually shiver, when I think about my dick going there next. My dick is going to disappear in his body. I’m going to fuck him. I’m going to lose my virginity and so is he. This isn’t with someone just wanting some money or a quick experience, this isn’t a notch on a bedpost, this is more than all of that. I can feel how different this is. <br/><br/>“Do it,” he whispers, breaking my thoughts. “Do it, Trowa.”</p><p>And there wasn’t any other time that I wished that name were mine than right now as he lies beneath me, wanting me. <br/><br/>I pull my fingers out quickly and pull his legs up. I get into position. I look down and see myself just at the edge, barely touching. I feel it, barely touching. But then I look up at him. I want to see his face when I first fuck him, the first second we lose ourselves. <br/><br/>“Please,” he begs again, and then surprises me by swearing, thinking I’m stalling to tease him, “Yes, fuck me, okay? Just fuck me.”<br/><br/>I have control over him, in this moment, and I love it. I push forward because I don’t have the will to wait any longer. I feel my cockhead trapped inside, hot and slick. I fight against his muscles’ resistance, pressing in deeper. His eyes open and close, like a butterfly’s wing, like a blossoming flower. Everything about him reminds me of the Earth, I realize. Bursting with life and energy; having its own enthralling gravity, pulling me closer. So, I move closer and feel more of him. I don’t stop, I let myself go. I let myself fall into him.<br/><br/>Quatre chokes out something I can’t understand, but it’s not ‘stop’ and it’s not painful. It sounds awed. He looks right through me as I move on top of him.  <br/><br/>My cock feels almost crushed and raw inside him, almost painful, but it’s too wonderful to even imagine. I move in and out of him, twisting my arms around him. I feel different than I ever have before. I am different. I don’t want to distance myself anymore.  I don’t want to be a soldier tomorrow. I don’t want him to be an heir tomorrow. I want to go for a walk. Maybe watch a movie or we could go out to eat. Maybe go on dates. Maybe get a dog. Maybe forget about everything.<br/><br/>And that’s what anchors me to myself, to the future. The fact that all that can never happen. I don’t really have Quatre...I don’t have anything to give him. Who am I to ask for that, to want anything more than just this moment, just this wonderful and terrible moment? The duality of caring for someone…for caring<em> about</em> someone. It’s too difficult.<br/><br/>“I love you,” he moans as he clutches onto me and I realize that he’s looking at me now, watching my face as I fuck him, as I sweat and ache against him.<br/><br/>I want to say it, too, but I don’t. I kiss him. I kiss him so deeply, trying to drown myself in him. Because this is all I’ll ever have…and it’s all he could ever have of me.</p><p>My orgasm surprises me, crashes into me as I feel his tongue thrust and twist into my mouth. I pull back, shudder and groan, feel that tremor of bliss. I clutch onto him and come in him. He holds me so tightly, saying something, something I can’t understand. Something in Arabic, something sweet and merciful as I gasp and shake against his sweating skin.</p><p>“Sorry,” I breathe, trying and fumbling for a steady breath, “Sorry. I should have-”</p><p>“It’s okay. It’s okay,” he soothes me, “It was incredible. Thank you. Thank you, Trowa.”</p><p>But I see he’s still hard, hasn’t come yet. I carefully slip out of his body, which elicits a gasp and half laugh from him. It sounds so gentle, so warm – the warmest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.</p><p>As I kiss my way down his chest, I’m greedy, I’m hungry. I swallow each hitching breath and moan. His hand brushes through my hair, holds it back and we can see each other so clearly. I lick the salt from his skin in long, languished circles and strokes on my tongue. I gently bite where his hip joins his body, near the curve of bone and skin there.</p><p>His eyes follow mine, slowly blinking, sighing and urging me on. His words are sometimes English, sometimes Arabic, but all about my beauty, my heat, his want, his love.</p><p>I give him what would be considered a blow job, but it’s much more than that. It is…It’s just giving and giving, and taking everything I can get. It’s pushing my limits, sucking him as deeply as I can. It’s kissing and licking. It’s figuring out how his foreskin works and relishing in his delight at my experimentations. It’s finding out that I don’t mind licking against the curve of his testicles. It’s discovering that his length and thickness feels good<em>, feels right</em>, in my open, welcoming mouth. Or that I don’t mind the taste of his semen as he raggedly and loudly comes in my mouth.</p><p>And as he recovers, I watch him, his flushed face and heaving chest. I trail my fingers down his chest and he smiles, nearly purrs at it. I try to smile, too.</p><p>I wish that it was simple. I wish this was so much simpler than it is.</p><p>I wish I could ask to stay with him a few days. To do this again, to feel him again.</p><p>I’ve never wished for much, and nothing this selfish or this grandiose.</p><p>Because I can’t ask him anything.</p><p>It’s not my place and not who I am. No matter how much I would want it to be.</p><p>“We need to get some sleep,” I tell him, “We still have…tomorrow to worry about.”</p><p>“Yeah,” he says, somber now, glances to me. “I know that you think I’m a silly boy, caught up in something I have no right to be in…I know that, Trowa.”</p><p>He sighs, sits up. “And I know that you’re thinking that my words come easy…that they’re free and foolish. I know that, Trowa. Perhaps I am a fool. And I might get killed. And you might get killed. And I’m a fool for caring about that. But know that I am not swayed by simple emotions. I am not deluded by sex or empty promises…and you aren’t, either.”</p><p>Slowly, he holds my hand and, in that intimate act, I almost pull away. “But just as I know that of you, please know of me that these are <em>not</em> easy words. I love you. I loved you from the first moment I saw you…and if we survive…if we’re blessed and lucky…you owe me a conversation. A conversation about <em>us</em>.”</p><p>I’m a little stunned, at the conviction, at the impact and passion in those words. I fumble.</p><p>“I can’t…” I tell him, feeling that pressure of hope nudged into my chest and how uncomfortable it is. “I can’t afford to hope.”</p><p>“Then…” He says, gripping my hand tighter and closer to him. “I will bear the burden of hope for the both of us…until that time…because I can afford the cost.”</p><p>In this moment, I realize that I love him, too…But I can’t do anything. There’s nothing I can do.</p><p>Except try to survive for as long as I can.</p><p>As long as I can…</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Trowa finds a way to connect with a stranger he somehow knows...</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Set after Trowa sees Quatre again after losing his memories...</p><p>Sexual content this chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He was the second person, but he was different from the first one. The first one who “found” me didn’t really remind me of anyone. I could have passed him in a crowd. The only things that stuck out were his priest-like outfit and his long, braided hair. Other than that, he was like everyone else in the crowd. I felt nothing towards him, even when he barged in backstage and called my name.</p><p>In fact, it hurt when he called my name although I’m not sure why. It just didn’t fit. It didn’t match, somehow. I felt like he was there to hurt me. When he called my name, my heart started pounding and it stung, like being grazed by the claws from one of the cats. Accidental, but still real and physical.</p><p>I’ll admit, I was relieved to see him leave, still shaking his head and looking back with an uncertain glance.</p><p>But when the second boy called out to me…</p><p>At first, there was general confusion because I swear it was familiar. Like I had heard his voice before. Like I had heard it softly, and loudly…and intimately.</p><p>It was his tears, though, that shook me. I know…somehow…<em>those </em>were familiar. They reached right in and left me breathless. I could feel their weight, their gravity, even if I emotionally couldn’t really connect. It felt like a waning battery, still energy, but muted. I could feel them, but only traces.</p><p>He acted like I was someone important<em>, someone so very important</em>, and that terrified me. I couldn’t even think of anything to say. Because when he came to me, when he called to me, there was love that I could see but couldn’t feel. I was someone to him, but the memory refused me the solace of understanding.</p><p>He was a stranger.</p><p>He was an echo of something so close, but still slipping away from my mind. I could feel him without touching him…</p><p>And that petrified me.</p><p>Catherine only justified my fears and doubts by coming out of the tent, by yelling at him to leave me alone, that I wouldn’t be safe with him.</p><p>But somehow…no…that wasn’t true. That couldn’t be true.</p><p>She rejected him so fiercely and I couldn’t say anything because I was nauseated with the erratic swell of feelings and desires, the whispers of a faded closeness and softness that I couldn’t map out.</p><p>As he walked away, so suddenly, my chest was overwhelmed, like suddenly realizing that he, too, was an important person. He was…important to me. And he was walking away from me.</p><p>God, it hurt. I could barely breathe and I struggled, searching my mind for anything – anything to urge me to call out his own name, to make him stay, to make him take me with him. But I had nothing. I had absolutely nothing, in fact, less. Like a negative. Like an abscess. Like a piece of myself had been completely removed and I could feel the edge of that absence but I could find nothing else.</p><p>That was two days ago. Cathy has kept close to me after that.</p><p>I was hoping, praying even, that after that day I would dream of him. Sometimes I have dreams that I feel are missing pieces, just scraps of who I was. Cathy is quiet when I mention them, or just shakes her head, <em>‘No, Trowa, you were never in a mobile suit’, ‘No, you were never with a group of men in a field, shooting an old man in the head’, ‘No, you were never in OZ’</em>. Things like that.</p><p>But I know she’s lying.</p><p>She’s actually very easy to read.</p><p>And these two others…she knows that they’re right.<em> I</em> know that they’re right.</p><p>But what can I do? I would be a burden to them, to their cause, if I joined them. I have no idea who they are, what their plans are. I know that the people we perform for think they’re terrorists…</p><p>But he didn’t seem like a terrorist.</p><p>He seemed…I don’t know. <em>God, I don’t know.</em> Wonderful? Beautiful? Wistful? Foolish? A fool with his heart on his sleeve…A dreamer…A romantic.</p><p>And it was like I could feel him for a while after he left. Just a long thrum of desperation and affection in my mind for hours after. And I hoped that I would see him in my dreams so I could figure out who he was to me…who he could be to me…</p><p>But he never appeared.</p><p>I sigh, restless, still thinking about him in these late hours.</p><p>Cathy’s sleeping, lightly snoring from the other end of the trailer, and I’m wide awake. <em>Wide awake and yearning</em>. I try to feel that thread of desperation he had left me with, warm and sharp in my chest, curving and tying around my heart. It felt so real, <em>so visceral</em>. Like I could reach out and touch it, follow that thread back to him. Maybe back to his own heart.</p><p>I breathe deeply, hand rested on my stomach and try to beckon it back to me. Whatever it was and whatever it is, I breathe and struggle to summon it, now that I’m calm, now that I’m alone. Now that I <em>want</em> to feel him again…</p><p>‘<em>Who are you?</em>’ I try talking to it, or maybe to him, ‘<em>Where did we meet? What were the words you first said to me? What were your last? Who are you? Who am I? Why were you so desperate?...Why am I so desperate now?</em>’</p><p>When I saw him, it was like finding something important but not realizing its significance. Like finding the Rosetta stone and, sure, knowing of its age, its beauty, but not the <em>magnitude</em> of its importance.</p><p>‘<em>Who are you</em>?’ I whisper to that image of him in my head, over and over. His blue eyes that look like the sky from on Earth, eyes that flowed like rain, and gathered me into them. His gentle voice that I know I’ve heard before, maybe not audibly, but somehow else. Like I’ve lived in the chords and tones of that voice for many years, like a thicket, covering me, protecting me.</p><p>And the warmth that I felt, it was overwhelming, dizzying, even sickening at the time with its sheer enormity of magnetism and draw. Just like lying in the sunlight, true sunlight, and not the artificial light of the colonies. It sunk down into me. I could feel it deeper than my skin.</p><p>In fact, I realize suddenly, that everything about him reminds me of the Earth, its power and stillness, and life and death. The duality of beauty and destruction, and comfort and fear. He is raw and intense in his desire of me, of his want of me…and I can’t deny that I didn’t feel anything. I wanted that desire, even if I didn’t understand it.</p><p>And now, gradually, <em>over time, after patience</em>, as I keep bidding that feeling to me, I feel a heaviness. I feel a warmth…and that same desperation I saw in his eyes. It surrounds me, it envelopes me, and I open myself to it.</p><p>I can smell him, <em>on me, above me, at my side</em>; and when I close my eyes, I feel the weight and pressure of his body near me and <em>this</em>, whatever this is... It feels right. It feels like this is something I can do, could maybe always do if I had just tried. I can call to him and he will come…</p><p>Without even touching him, I know how his skin feels, how pale it is, how smooth and soft. Unmarred and unblemished. His gentle touches are here suddenly, on my face, in my heart. <em>It feels so good.</em> It feels so warm and wanting. He wants more of me than my body or name or history – and I can feel that, <em>god, I feel that</em>.</p><p>I shiver at this touch, and completely dispel the fact that I’m probably on that edge of being awake and drifting into sleep. I cut the thought completely that this isn’t real, or my mind’s playing tricks, because it is real and I can smell and feel him.</p><p>I breathe out, long and slow, and his hands are curled on my chest, pressing against that breath. I can almost feel something wet and soft against my parting lips. It’s so close to pressure, I want to lean into it, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be there anymore. I’m afraid he’ll melt away…</p><p>‘<em>Trowa</em>,’ I hear in my mind, trickling down my body, a little tremor raking through my chest, arms, stomach, groin, legs, feet. ‘<em>Trowa</em>.’</p><p>I don’t know or remember his name. I only know how he smells, how he smiles, how he weeps, how he wants me. How he overwhelms me.</p><p>‘<em>Please</em>,’ I try to speak to him, ‘<em>Please</em>.’</p><p>I trail my hand down my tightening stomach and it feels like there’s warmth guiding it, spurring it, wanting it there. I’m not shocked to find myself hard and eager.</p><p>Sliding my hand under my boxers, I squeeze myself tightly, but can hear the faint puff of a gasp beside my ear, as if he can feel it, too. It’s like there’s a shift in the bed, a weight being pressed into it, at my side. I shut my eyes so tight because I’m afraid to break whatever this is, whether its sleep or…him.</p><p>Slowly, self-indulgently, I stroke myself, as if feeling this for the first time. And it’s not. I have before. I’ve felt urges and needs, but they were methodical, perfunctory. This…this is different. I feel like I’m cracking open, like he’s spilling inside me. And I am <em>desperate</em> for it.</p><p>Heat traces down my chest, flicks across my bare nipple and I swallow down my gasp. <em>Yes, yes, this is right.</em> I can’t remember exactly this, but it’s like I am echoing something. Maybe my wants. Maybe his. I don’t know, my head is spinning. I can barely think.</p><p>‘<em>Please</em>,’ I call into that void, feel his yearning sighs in response, ‘<em>Please…who are you</em>?’</p><p>But he’s illusive. He’s a soft chuckle, the sound of rain. He’s just a soft murmur against my skin and the ghost of a kiss against my wet lips which I keep licking, hoping to catch a taste of him. He’s a softness that I know – <em>I fucking know</em> – that I have never felt before in my life. Like silk. Like a clean river. Like a polished stone.</p><p>He seems to sense that I’m close to the edge because the vestiges of his presence sharpen and heighten. Soft gasps that I know aren’t mine quake against <em>and into</em> my skin, down into my heart, down into my muscles and bones.</p><p>The weight against me amplifies, like he’s touching my side, hand on my neck, on my chest, on my hand, clutching my cock with me, stroking me faster. There’s something plush and wet against my chin, against my jaw - <em>his mouth</em>. He’s kissing around my lips and I turn for his kiss, but it evades me, as he keeps kissing around my panting mouth.</p><p>“Please,” I whisper, hearing my voice for the first time, how strained and quiet it is. “Please.”</p><p>I can feel nails scratch down my chest and his breath against my neck. That’s what tips me over the edge and I can feel the orgasm shift and spill out of me. Shaking against him, I can hear from inside my heart and spreading across my entire body, along the same trail as my orgasm, <em>‘I love you, Trowa. I love you</em>.’</p><p>I reach out to touch him and find only space, just as there’s an unexpected wetness on my shoulder from where he was at the same time. Breathing hard, I’m shocked that he’s not there, a sudden and cold shock. Because he felt <em>so real</em>. I felt him here. I felt his body beside mine. I <em>know</em> I did.</p><p>I search for heat next to me and feel almost sick when I find none. The bed is cold, unrumpled.</p><p>But he was here.<em> I know he was here!</em></p><p>Jolting, I touch my neck, feel the wetness there, remember his tears. His tears! This must be- Another drop lands on my hand. Surprised, I reach up to my forehead. I’m sweating. I’m sweating profusely. It’s just pouring off my skin…</p><p>But, <em>no, I heard him</em>. I know I did. He was here! He was…He was loving me. He was wanting me. He called to me.</p><p>And I called to him. <em>And he came for me</em>.</p><p>I sit up and, of course, there’s nothing. Nothing to say that he was here and touching me. I run a hand through my hair, heart pounding. I’m shaking again, all over. I can still taste his desperation at the back of my throat. Or is it my own? God, it is <em>mine</em>? Has it always been mine? Was I just deluding myself?</p><p>I feel so alone. I feel like I’ve missed my chance to find him. I should have gone after him. I should have called out anything to get him to stop. I should have run after him and grabbed onto him, no matter what the cost. I never should have let him go.</p><p>And everything aches at that fact. Down into my bones, I can feel his absence and I can’t help but cover my face in my hands and silently weep because I lost him. I allowed myself to lose him. I never should have let him go.</p><p>Because I miss him. I miss <em>everything</em> about him…</p><p>And I don’t even know who he is…</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>3x4x3 is my old school jam...shruuuugs. I love them. </p><p>This is a little like my other Starley Hotel fic but a lot less dark. More of a contemplative/awkward Trowa instead of a bitter fuckfest Trowa. And less of a 'I-just-wanna-love-you' Quatre and more of a 'hey-i'm-just-trying-to-be-your-friend....but-also-I-kinda-want-you' Quatre. </p><p>And way, I have one last Starley Hotel fic that I'll write before retiring this location/trope ^^</p></blockquote></div></div>
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